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As he made his way through the blue drawing room, Yovan distastefully eyed the guests clustered in threes or fours around the chamber. It was not that they were Half-bloods and commoners that drew his displeasure. It was because they behaved as the mannerless folk lowbred Deira were purported to be. He suppressed a scowl when one of them snapped at a servant who’d offered him a drink and some savory tidbits just because the latter did not have the whiskey he desired.
The Deir hastily schooled himself when he realized Yovan was watching him and accepted wine instead, treating the retainer to a patently false smile. Yovan forbore to shake his head in disapproval.
“Van?”
He glanced at Mered before returning his attention to his spouse’s guests.
“Is it really necessary to have this lot mar the peace of Woodmere?” he asked, not bothering to cloak his disdain in diplomatic language. “Your last guests were ill-mannered enough, but these ones think their wealth entitles them to abuse the household staff and stablehands.”
Mered sighed. “I know, they’re quite unlearned.”
“Unlearned?” Yovan scoffed. “Boorish is closer to the mark. Well, save them I have to admit.”
He cocked his head infinitesimally at the builder Isron Debrith and his second spouse. At least, Yovan thought it was his second spouse. When Debrith stayed over several months back, the Deir on his arm was different. Mered had not apprised him on whether that mate had been Debrith’s first, so the current one could be the second or tenth.
“Isron’s family was considered quite respectable back in Edessa,” Mered explained. “He’s been raised differently by my kind’s standards.”
Yovan frowned. “Your kind? Discourteousness doesn’t run in one’s blood. You’re proof that manners and the like are learned. If folk didn’t know you’re Asrael Cordona’s son, they’d mistake you for a highbred member of the gentry at the very least given how you carry yourself.”
Mered smiled, his cheeks turning slightly rosy. “Thank you. I do try.”
“And succeed.” Yovan huffed in frustration. “I wish you wouldn’t hold these gatherings here. Why not just have them over in Rikara? Woodmere is supposed to be our haven from city life, not a venue for entertaining your bank clients.”
“I’m sorry,” Mered murmured, tucking himself against Yovan so he could keep their exchange low and intimate. “They’re just so impressed with seeing what hard work and ambition can accomplish. Not that you haven’t contributed to making Woodmere even more beauteous than it originally was,” he quickly added.
Yovan knew his mate was sensitive about insinuations that they came to own so splendid a country estate only because Asrael Cordona had gifted it on them. He affectionately pinched the tip of Mered’s nose which brought back the latter’s smile.
“I’d appreciate it if you don’t have them here,” he softly reiterated. “Rikara should be enough for them. And if you could just be more... selective about the Deira you invite?”
Mered nodded. “I will, I promise.” He paused then asked, “So you don’t mind the likes of Isron?”
Yovan frowned once more. “Are you so close to Debrith that you address him by his given name?” he asked.
“What? Nay!” Mered flushed slightly then sighed. “He’s one of the bank’s biggest investors, he and his sire. My parents address him thusly and he desired that we all do the same.”
“I see.”
Yovan glanced at the Deir in question and suppressed a start when he glimpsed what appeared to be anger on the latter’s face. It was quickly wiped away when Debrith met his eyes, but Yovan had no doubt the Deir had been displeased about something.
“I won’t mind your guests overmuch if they treat our people with courtesy,” he said. “I do mind those who appear to bear some grudge against me.” At Mered’s startled stare, he briefly pointed his chin in Debrith’s direction. “When he looked at me just now, it was clear he was angry. And don’t try to tell me I’m imagining things.”
Mered shook his head. “I wasn’t going to. I’ll have a word with him. He has no cause to be rude to you and he a guest under our roof.”
“And if he does bear a grudge?”
“I’ll warn him to behave if he wishes to be invited again.”
Yovan frowned. Something did not feel right but he could not pinpoint what it was that troubled him. At length, he commented, “Hiding his true feelings behind polite smiles is hardly assurance he harbors no ill will toward me. I’d rather he be open about it and not leave me wondering if I should watch my back when he’s about.” When Mered caught his breath, he said, “I didn’t mean it literally. Though he’d best not try to assault me thusly if he wishes to live to a ripe old age and in one piece.”
Mered huffed a chuckle. Taking Yovan’s hand, he pulled it up to his lips to kiss his knuckles. “You’re not done with the skills you picked up in Intelligence,” he murmured.
“Nor do I wish to be,” Yovan replied. “I may be desk-bound now for the most part, but there’s no telling if and when those skills will be required.” He narrowed his eyes at Debrith. The builder had suddenly turned on his heel and stalked toward the door. His spouse looked startled and embarrassed and smiled tightly at the Deira they’d been in conversation with. “Debrith was displeased when you kissed my hand. Why is that?”
Mered glanced at the departing Deir and shrugged. “Who knows what silly ideas afflict him? Perhaps he’s a prude and dislikes shows of affection in public. Pay him no mind. He’s of little consequence and therefore harmless.”
Yovan kept his gaze on Debrith until the fellow exited the chamber. He nodded his acknowledgement of Mered’s comment, but he could not quite shake the feeling that there was more to the incident than a display of grumpiness.
He’d noticed for some time now that his relationship with his spouse was changing and seldom for the better. Mered kept company with his parents almost every day whereas previously he’d avoided them more than was considered normal or healthy. And he was spending long hours at Bank Cordona, sometimes staying late or going home to the Cordona mansion after work rather than their own abode.
Yovan could not deny it was much more convenient since the mansion was just minutes away by foot from the family’s banking headquarters. But he still resented Mered’s frequent absences from their house when Yovan himself made it a point to limit the number of times he didn’t come home on account of late night meetings at the Citadel.
He’d also noticed that Mered’s invitations to join him at the dinners and parties hosted by his family for their business acquaintances and investors had dwindled. He often wondered if it was because Mered no longer needed him at his side now the Cordonas had managed to climb up a few more rungs on the social ladder. He’d tried to ask Mered about this but his spouse always assured him that was not the case at all. Unfortunately, Yovan did not think his reasons very convincing.
Another unwelcome change was Mered’s habit of having folk over at their Vireshe estate; sometimes while Yovan was away. He’d even left Yovan in Rikara a few times in order to attend to his house guests. This last time was the first Yovan put his foot down and asked Mered to desist from inviting people to Woodmere .
Truth be told, it bothered him how Mered downplayed his misgivings about some of his more frequent guests. Had made light of that Debrith fellow’s behavior rather than taken Yovan’s reservations about the Deir seriously.
But perhaps the one change that bothered Yovan enough to make him sometimes question his mate’s intentions was Mered’s propensity for shielding his thoughts from Yovan more often than not. While he had not agreed to open his mind to Yovan through viratha, neither had Mered guarded his thoughts as he now did. And that he seemed to do so when they had guests over was the most troubling of all. It contributed to the pervading sense of something amiss that would sometimes leave Yovan awake at night pondering all the differences that were eating away at his security in their marriage.
That feeling of something not quite right never truly faded away in the years that followed. Yovan tried his best to ferret out what seemed to be interfering with his marriage but for all his gifts, he was still a mere mortal and could only do so much.
He was Ylandre’s Chief Counsellor and de facto head of the advisory council to a sovereign still years short of his majority. And with Rohyr’s reliance on him growing ever greater, Yovan found he had neither the luxury of time nor extra energy to spare on personal investigations. Especially when situations and events that had naught to do with his positions at court reared their figurative heads and took him unawares.
Of all the responsibilities Yovan had expected to take on when he accepted the challenge of being both mentor and parent figure to Rohyr, keeping a weather eye out for dalliances had not been one of them. He’d anticipated the young king’s concupiscence since he was sprung from two Deira who’d caused much clucking of tongues and wagging of eyebrows at court due to their gamesomeness in the bedchamber. But Yovan had not considered that Rohyr lost his parents before they could school him in the proper conduct of sexual relations.
Keldon had never claimed he was a saint. Indeed, before he married Dyrael he’d indulged in a number of affairs with Deira from all walks of life across the length and breadth of the kingdom. But what Keldon had never been was a cad.
It was probably due to his aversion to playing the predator as Prince Andrion had done. Certainly Yovan’s own sexual habits had been informed by his grandsire’s profligate ways. He’d refused to follow in the latter’s disreputable footsteps. He and Keldon and even Imcael had duly sowed their oats but always with caution lest they suffer the same fate as the disgraced prince reputation-wise.
Thus, as soon as he heard tales of Rohyr’s initial exploits, he sat his nephew down and gave him the talk his own parents had given him when he reached the age of consent. To this day, he knew neither he nor Rohyr had ever been redder of face as when they discussed acceptable bed manners and the necessity of treating one’s partners with consideration be they blue-blooded or common-born.
He would always remember that conversation with much embarrassment. But since Rohyr took his counsel to heart as evinced by the absence of disgruntled erstwhile lovers or overly lewd gossip about his affairs, Yovan decided it was well worth the discomfort. And perhaps it was because of the discretion and delicacy with which Yovan had guided him that Rohyr in turn confided a most unexpected matter to him.
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C.A. 2988
Twenty-six years ago
It was the night of the celebration marking Rohyr’s majority.
That morning the advisory council was formally dissolved and Rohyr had taken on rulership of Ylandre in full. The evening was a merry one as the Ardan had refused a state dinner to celebrate his thirty-fifth begetting day. In lieu of elegantly set tables, a meticulously curated dinner, and carefully rehearsed performances by the lands’ most renowned artists, the kitchens produced a mouthwatering banquet more suited for a lavish picnic, guests sat or gathered wherever they wished, and minstrels and dancers were invited to perform whatever they wanted so long as nothing verged on political or religious commentary.
Surrounded by his cousins, Rohyr so enjoyed himself, he led chorus after chorus of particularly bawdy ditties as the festivities wound down. Thankfully, those who joined in the singing mostly stayed in tune despite the progressively liquid offerings at the buffet. It came as no surprise that many of the guests were thoroughly sozzled by the time they headed home.
Yovan was quite unprepared when a surprisingly sober Rohyr approached him as he prepared to leave.
“Uncle, I need to speak with you,” Rohyr murmured, taking care not to be heard by Mered and Rysander who waited nearby. “In private.”
“Right now?” Yovan asked, glancing at his spouse and son.
“Yes, while I still have the courage to tell you.”
Yovan stared at his nephew. “You haven’t done something foolish, have you?” he worriedly asked. “We have room for only one Andrion in House Essendri.”
Rohyr snorted. “Veres, nay! It has naught to do with my bed manners. Please, Uncle, this is really important. I dare not confide in anyone but you.”
“Not even Imcael?”
“Least of all him. Indeed, the only one who knows is Tenryon.”
Yovan stared. Apprehension curled into a ball in the pit of his stomach. What secret could Rohyr hold that was so sensitive he’d shared it with Tenryon Hadrana alone thus far? And now he wished to disclose it to Yovan, but not to Imcael. The sense of foreboding heightened. Concealing his unease with a smile, Yovan turned to Mered and Rysander.
“I will stay here tonight,” he softly told them. “Rohyr and I have to discuss something that can’t wait until tomorrow.”
Though both looked from him to Rohyr with curiosity, they acquiesced to his request and left. Yovan turned back to Rohyr and gestured in the direction of the doorway.
“Your rooms or mine?”
They repaired to Rohyr’s apartment after instructing Josel to have Yovan’s chambers readied. He very seldom stayed over and so the servants had to air the suite and change the musty beddings to fresh ones.
Rohyr poured them his favorite siryana wine.
Yovan chuckled and said, “Haven’t we had enough drink for the day?”
“You may find it not enough,” Rohyr replied with a small smile. “Not when I’m done telling you.”
“Telling me what, Rohyr-min?” Yovan asked. “This is all so mysterious.”
Rohyr sat down beside him on the couch fronting the hearth. “I’m not sure how to start,” he murmured after taking a few sips of wine.
“Start where you feel most comfortable.”
“I haven’t heard that advice yet. Most say start at the beginning.”
“And it’s a good place to start. But not if you wish to get to the point while you still feel brave enough to say anything.”
“True.” Rohyr exhaled. “Did you ever wonder why Aba and Ama asked Tenryon to help train me?”
Yovan shrugged. “I mostly assumed it was because you needed to learn how to harness the Essendri potential with which you’re abundantly blessed. A templar would know everything about the mind gifts. However it did puzzle me that they called upon an outsider so soon when they were amongst the strongest adepts in the kingdom.”
Rohyr shook his head. “As usual, you saw past the excuses and perceived something of the truth.”
He bowed his head for a bit, worrying his lower lip, a sign he was considering what to say or whether to say anything. At length, he gazed at Yovan, a strange gleam in his eyes. Yovan straightened and gazed at his nephew a little warily.
“It was indeed an excuse,” Rohyr softly said. “They could teach me everything about the Essendri potential and how to wield it. But only a templar can properly train a fellow templar.”
Yovan went still. He stared long and hard at Rohyr, awe and a desire to believe battling it out with skepticism. Wondering if Rohyr would allow him to read him, he tentatively reached out to touch his mind. To his relief, Rohyr opened his thoughts to him. A moment later, relief gave way to shock when he found himself viewing persons and events from past eras. Images that could only have been personally witnessed and then committed to memory.
Before he could properly process the idea, a force he had never encountered before touched his mind in turn.
Yovan was fulsomely blessed with the Essendri potential but he was aware he was not on the same level as Rohyr or his late parents. What he knew about the wellspring of the mind gifts came from books and lore. It shocked him to the core when Rohyr made it possible for him to see what only a templar or a phenomenally gifted adept could ever perceive.
A vortex of white brilliance flared and swirled—visual manifestation of the mind gifts. In mind-blind or minimally blessed Deira, its brightness would be muted or altogether dimmed. Yovan quickly descried a pulsing blue-hued orb of light hovering within the vortex. He recognized it as the source of extraordinary giftedness such as many of the Essendris possessed. The more intense the blue, the stronger and more plentiful the gifts.
This one was almost azure, so bright and vivid it was. It could only signify unimaginable strength and talent. The Essendri potential unfurled to its fullest, most fearsome display.
Another orb of light came into view from behind the first. This one was similar in hue to the rose-tinged scrying stone Tenryon had once shown him during a visit to Ziana. Strands of vibrant red flowed through it like veins. It was utterly alien to him and far more disconcerting. Where the blue light met the rose, pale purple sparked and crackled.
Can you guess what it is you’re seeing, Rohyr asked him.
Yovan inhaled sharply as insight led him to realization.
The source of a templar’s power, he replied in awe. Your power.
It was almost too much for his mind to absorb and this manifested in a throbbing headache. He withdrew from the link, breathing erratically as he did. Thankfully the headache subsided at once. He closed his eyes as he strove to calm his nerves.
At length, Yovan opened his eyes and stared at Rohyr. He caught his breath as he glimpsed an otherworldly light in the depths of his nephew’s grey eyes. It reminded Yovan of the glow in a born healer’s eyes when he was expending energy to mend or heal.
Rohyr slowly blinked. When he raised his eyelids, the light was gone and he was looking at Yovan with concern.
“Are you all right, Uncle?” he asked in a hushed voice. He reached for Yovan’s hand. “Did I frighten you?”
Yovan shakily laughed. “I won’t deny I was frightened at first. But I’m fine now if a bit rattled. And yet, strange as it may seem, I was half expecting something of the sort. Not that you’re a templar but rather...” He blew his breath out. “I’ve always thought you would be stronger than either of your parents. Indeed, I believed you would be the most powerful wielder of the mind arts in the kingdom, mayhap in all the North Continent. I just never made the connection between your abilities and the templars.”
“How could you?” Rohyr pointed out. “The templars avoid revealing their gifts.”
“Except Tenryon.”
“For good reason.”
“Indeed.” Yovan looked at Rohyr curiously. “You showed me images from the past. They’re memories, aren’t they? Your memories?”
“Yes, from previous lifetimes.”
“Sweet Veres,” Yovan murmured. “That’s incredible. How many lifetimes do you recall?”
Rohyr looked past Yovan as if seeing something far away. Or long ago. “I haven’t kept count, but I know I was born for the first time in the eighth century after the Inception.”
Yovan’s eyes widened. “And do you remember every life?”
“I do.”
“It’s a miracle the knowledge hasn’t driven you mad.”
“We templars are the only Deira who can remember every one of our past lives and remain sane.”
“Interesting.” Yovan smiled wanly. “Thank you for trusting me with this. You honor me.”
Rohyr smiled back. “Tenryon advised me to take someone outside of the brotherhood into my confidence. To lighten the burden of secrecy and also relieve the loneliness. It’s quite isolating to be different from everyone else.” He looked down at their clasped hands. “You’re the only one I can trust with this. Apart from my fellow templars, only my parents in all my lives have known. No one else knew, not even the Deira I wed or any of the children I begot.”
“That is indeed lonely,” Yovan mused. “Rest assured nothing you told me will leave this room. And if you need to unburden yourself, come to me. I will never turn you away.”
Yovan laid a hand on Rohyr’s shoulder and squeezed it, sharply conscious of the profound trust his nephew had placed in him. He would hold to his promise for as long as he walked Aisen. He would keep Rohyr’s secret until he drew his last breath.